English literature -- England -- Lancashire; Legends -- England -- Lancashire
"It is not too late," said the stranger, with great solemnity. Every
eye was bent upon him. He still sat in the broad shadow projected by
one huge chimney-corner, his face overhung by a broad felt hat, girt
with a band and buckle; a drooping draggled feather fell over its
crown. His whole person was so curiously enveloped in a loose
travelling cloak that nothing but a dark unshapely mass, having some
resemblance to the human form, could be distinguished. Concealment
was evidently the object. Every one was awed down into silence. The
few words he had spoken seemed to have dried up, or rather frozen at
its surface, the babbling current of their opinions, that ran, whilom,
with unceasing folly and rapidity.
"Silence!" cried the sutor from the opposite ingleside.
This command operated like a charm. The ice was broken, and the
current became free. Without more ado, as if in opposition to the
self-constituted authority from the high-backed chair, the guests,
with one exception only, commenced with a vigorous discharge of "airy
missiles," which by degrees subsided into a sort of desultory
sharp-shooting; but their words were neither few nor well applied. It
was evident that a gloom and disquietude was upon the assembly. There
was a distinct impression of fear, though a vague notion as to its
cause--a sort of extempore superstition--a power which hath most hold
on the mind in proportion as its limits and operations are least known
or understood. The bugbear owing its magnitude and importance to
obscurity and misapprehension, becomes divested of its terrors when it
can be surveyed and appreciated.
"_Te misereat, miserescat, vel commiserescat mei,_"
quoted the schoolmaster, who, before he could find an equivalent in
his mother-tongue, was tripped up by the nimble constructor of
raiment.
"The dule and his dam are verily let loose on us," said he.
"Our Lady and her grace forefend!" cried he of the awl and lapstone,
whose pipe having unaccountably been extinguished, was just in the act
of being thrust down into the red and roaring billets when he beheld a
blue flame hovering on them; a spiral wreath of light shot upwards,
and the log was reduced to a mass of glowing ashes and half-burnt
embers. At this critical moment the stranger deliberately approached
the hearth. He threw a whole flagon of liquor wilfully upon the waning
faggots, and in a moment fiz, splutter, and smoke proclaimed that the
warfare of the elements, like many others, had ended in the
destruction of both the contending belligerents. The yule-log was
extinguished. There was a general rush, and a consternation of so
unequivocal a nature, that tables, benches, platters, and drinking
utensils were included in one vast overthrow. Some thought they saw
the glowing emblem of Yule transferred to the stranger's eyes, which
twinkled like twin loopholes to the furnace within.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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